


Thaw

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hunters & Hunting, King Hannibal Lecter, Kings & Queens, Knight Will Graham, M/M, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25640059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: When Hannibal was a child, Mason Verger overthrew his kingdom and forced Hannibal to retreat to his uncle so that he wasn't massacred with the rest of his family. Now, he's returned to reclaim his throne. On his journey he meets Will, a mysterious and wild man who happens to be traveling in the same direction. They travel together, both of them hiding their true identities from the other, through the worst winter storm the kingdom has seen in years.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 38
Kudos: 269
Collections: Hannigram_Reverse_Bang_2020





	Thaw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joyLD100](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joyLD100/gifts).



> Thank you so much to @joyld100 for their amazing art prompt! I had so much fun writing this, especially whenever I get to have Will say 'My Lord' or 'My King', that shit's my lifeblood.

Hannibal's head lifts at the sound of a soft grunt. He tenses, eyes narrowed as he peers out into the darkness, which creeps far too close to the meager little campfire. The halo of light barely stretches a few feet, immediately swallowed by black. It is that time of year, this far North, where there are scarcely more than two hours of sunlight in a day, and the nights stretch long and cold.

There is snow on the ground, and his attention is caught as a bank is disturbed, sending tiny flurries into his halo of light. Slowly, he lowers his hand so that he can curl his fingers around the handle of his sword, ready to pull it and strike.

It has been years since he has been in this country, after all, and though there are still many loyal to his family's name, they may not know him on sight, and think him merely a beggar or vagrant or traveler; an easy target for the bandits on the road.

Another grunt comes, and then the body of a deer is rolled down into the little camp, in danger of disturbing the fire and putting it out entirely. Hannibal glares as, from the shadows, emerges a man, lean and wild as the land he came from. Will. He grins at Hannibal, and there's blood on his hands and smeared across his face, a hunting bow slung across his back.

"Don't get up, I got it," he says sarcastically, arching a brow at Hannibal. Hannibal smiles, and releases his sword, instead standing and taking up the long knife they have been using to prepare and cut at their meat. He circles the fire and kneels.

Will found a doe, her pelt thick, eyes dark and shining. His aim was true – there is but a single puncture in her flank that pierced her heart, dripping a thin river of blood. He does not know what Will did before they met that made him such a skilled archer, but he is thankful for it in times like this.

He splits the doe's belly and begins peeling back the meat as Will sighs, and uses clumps of snow to wash his hands clean, rendering it red. "You were gone for a long while," Hannibal says conversationally. "I had begun to fear the worst."

Will laughs. He has the same sense of humor as a madman, and smiles at the most morbid things. "I'm too skinny for wolves," he replies, and joins Hannibal in kneeling on the doe's other side. The fire kisses his flushed face, darkens his wild hair, makes his eyes shine. "There's a storm coming, though. We need to find shelter."

Hannibal nods. Will is much more familiar with the wildness of this country than Hannibal ever was. Until recently, he was the ward of the neighboring Kingdom, where he had allies and comfortable beds and a roof over his head. When he'd first met Will, in a tavern on a long and winding road in the deepest parts of the forest, the man had seemed born from the shadows, coming and going without anyone noticing him.

Hannibal noticed him. It's hard not to pay attention to someone like Will, once he allows himself to be seen.

"How long do we have?" he asks.

"Couple of hours, maybe," Will replies.

Hannibal nods, and goes back to skinning and gutting the deer with more intent. They will not have time to roast the meat before moving on, but the cold will keep the meat fresh and prevent rot, and when they find a more permanent place to camp for the night to wait out the storm, they will build a fire and be able to cook.

Will helps him, between trips of packing up their other rations, their bedding, and their weapons. They surrendered their horses to the frozen, impassible tundra miles back, and left them with a farmer who could put them to work. The ice is too treacherous for an animal to trust, and Hannibal knows they have crossed more than one snowy expanse of frozen water that would have crumbled under the animals' weight.

There isn't enough time to take as much as he would like, and since they are carrying everything themselves, they must pack lightly. He wraps up the cuts once he is content with the harvest and Will lights a torch, and kicks snow over the fire to put it out, casting them in even deeper darkness.

He hands Hannibal his things and his sword. "Come on."

They continue walking. It is so cold that even through Hannibal's cloak and hood, the wind bites at his skin and makes him shiver. He is both too warm and frozen, and knows they must seek shelter soon or risk losing extremities. He flexes his fingers and rubs his hands together beneath his gloves in an attempt to keep them warm and functioning. God forbid they come across a real fight and he is unable to even grip his sword properly to defend himself.

The storm comes for them like a cavalry charge. Wind whips up beneath their cloaks, stinging their faces, throwing ice and snow at them in waves. Hannibal grits his teeth and keeps his head down, only paying attention to the little flickering flame of Will's torch as he trudges on. The snow is so deep it goes up to their knees in places, and every muscle he has burns with exertion.

"There!" Will yells over the cries of the storm. Hannibal looks up, cupping his hands around his face so he can squint through the darkness. There is a block, ahead of them, a blacker-than-black square that looks like some kind of house. He nods and Will pushes forward, and they hurry as fast as they can towards the building.

It is a house. Half of the roof is caved in and there is no door on the hinge, but on the inside they are out of the wind and it's _slightly_ warmer. Will pushes his snow-covered hood back from his face, cheeks flushed as his body tries to regulate temperature. He lifts his torch and looks around.

The place has been abandoned for some time. Years, if Hannibal had to guess. The floor around the broken part of the roof is soaking wet and laden with snow, but there is a dry area on the other side, large enough for them to light a fire and rest.

Hannibal sets to work trying to find something they can light, while Will seals the door with his second cloak and braves the outside to fill their waterskins with snow that will melt and be drinkable. At least there is this to say for Hannibal's country – no man needs ever fear a lack of water.

By the time he returns, shivering and sodden, Hannibal has a small fire lit. Will smiles in relief and sheds his pack and his outermost cloak, hanging it on the wall to drip and dry. Hannibal does the same, and they set their packs down in another dry patch of floor before they both huddle around the fire for warmth.

"It's going to be a rough one," Will says, blowing on his hands to warm them up. Hannibal nods in agreement. "Wind's promising, though. Means it'll pass quickly."

"We can only hope," Hannibal replies.

"We should have kept the horses."

"They'd freeze to death outside, if we didn't lose them in the river."

Will lets out a rough noise of unhappy agreement. He fits the edge of his thumbnail between his teeth, picking at a lingering piece of grainy bread they had bartered for at the village prior. "Should have waited for the summer," he sighs.

"I couldn't wait that long," Hannibal replies.

Will arches a brow, staring at him across the fire. With the light below him, he looks like a demon, some Hellish thing only a wild country like this could create. "What's the hurry?" he asks. "The Capitol will still be there come springtime."

"I told you," Hannibal says, "I have urgent business with the King."

Will hums. He does not know Hannibal's true heritage, Hannibal doubts he was even alive during the uprising that cast Hannibal from his home and made him a stranger in his own lands. His uncle had given him shelter and safety until he came of age, and trained him to fight and survive. Now, it is time Hannibal return to the man who usurped his throne and take it back.

He told Will none of this. Will might be loyal to the usurper, after all, or he might go running his mouth to someone who wants to cash in the bounty on Hannibal's head. The end of Hannibal's life is worth a hefty amount of coin, so he's been told by spies in the Capitol. He would do well not to give Will any reason to peer too curiously at his past.

In the tavern where they'd met, it had been rather simple. Two men travelling together were safer than a lone one, and if they were going in the same direction, then why not journey together? Hannibal likes Will; his gruffness is refreshing, his ignorance means he doesn't treat Hannibal as anyone other than a fellow commoner. There are no simpering bows and 'Your Majesty's and hesitation to speak his mind. He is the closest Hannibal has ever come to having a friend.

Will finishes removing the irritant from his teeth, and sucks in a breath through them. "Get some rest," he says. "I'll take the first watch."

Hannibal's brows rise. "That's not necessary," he replies. "I doubt we'll be set upon in this storm."

"Set upon, probably not, but we might not be the only people seeking shelter."

Hannibal smiles. Will is so paranoid, so prickly about his territory. "Do you think so lowly of your fellow kinsmen that we might not all be able to share space for a night?"

Will's eyes flash. "You really are a foreigner," he says with a wry smile. He shakes his head and sighs, another shiver running down his spine as the cloak billows with the wind and a gust of icy air threatens to put the fire out. He pulls his limbs to his center in an attempt to keep warm. "It's been different, since the uprising. People are starving, and desperate."

Hannibal's lips turn down at the corners, his brow creases. "There is plenty of food and land to spare," Hannibal replies. His land is vast, and the population relatively low. It is how they were so easily overrun and invaded. Help could not come from their allies in time – it had been a winter much like this when the usurper attacked. From reports, Hannibal heard that he killed all the messenger ravens and any courier found to be relaying information to foreign lands was immediately put to death.

Will smiles at him, like Hannibal is a naïve child. "Yes," he says. "There is."

Hannibal's frown deepens. Another shudder runs through Will and he bites his lower lip, hunched over to try and protect himself from the wind. Hannibal rises, and sheds his cloak, pinning it along the bottom of the door, sideways, so that when the wind catches Will's, it does not bare the opening. Almost immediately, it feels warmer.

Will lets out a quiet, discontented sound. "You'll be cold," he argues. Hannibal only has one cloak.

"I can survive one night," Hannibal replies amiably.

Will reaches out, and takes his wrist as Hannibal passes him. He looks down at Will, finds him half-painted in shadow and golden light. Will bites his lower lip and tugs on Hannibal's wrist, pulling him down to his knees on the cold, hard floor, beside Will.

Will stretches his second cloak over Hannibal's shoulders, his arm wrapped tight around Hannibal's back, and pulls him closer. "I'm not having you freeze to death on my watch," he says, scolding and sharp. Hannibal smiles. It is much more comfortable under Will's winter skin, with the other man's body heat radiating through their clothes.

"I appreciate your graciousness, Will."

"Mm. It's selfish, too," Will replies, with one of his bright, lopsided smiles. "I'm cold as well."

"We can't be having that."

Will allows Hannibal to move him, so that their backs are to the upright wall where the floor is dry, the fire between them and the storm outside. Hannibal wraps one of his legs over Will's and pulls Will beneath him, their limbs entangled, Hannibal drawing Will's face to his neck so he can use Will's hair as another covering for his face.

Will laughs, his exhale warm against Hannibal's neck. He shifts his weight, turning in, shoulder beneath Hannibal's arm and thighs tightening around Hannibal's as he gets comfortable. His hand, for lack of anywhere else to go, tucks in at Hannibal's opposite hip. He sighs contentedly, clearly happy to have a source of heat to share, as the fire does its best to warm their toes and faces.

"Get some rest, Will," Hannibal coaxes, his fingers gently curling through Will's hair in an attempt to help it dry. It will be more comfortable for both of them, no longer a chill on Will's skull nor Hannibal's face. "You've more than earned it." He did, after all, provide the meat.

Will hums tiredly. If he has any protest, it's lost in another violent shiver. He is woefully cold, Hannibal can feel how chilly his fingers are even through their clothes.

With his free hand, he takes Will's, and coaxes them under Hannibal's tunic, so that he's touching bare skin. Will's fingers are like icicles and make him stiffen and hiss, even as Will laughs and spreads them out wide to warm them.

"Now who's being gracious?" he teases, voice slurring with sleep.

Hannibal smiles. "I can't have my hunter losing his hand," he replies.

Will laughs, and buries his face in Hannibal's neck, seeking warmth on his cheeks and nose. Hannibal shivers, but it's not entirely from cold.

"You can sleep too," he says. "You're right; no one's going to come for us here."

Hannibal nods in agreement. He turns his nose to Will's hair and closes his eyes.

They wake up cold, the fire mere embers now, still emanating heat but not nearly as strong. At some point, they fell to their sides, Will against the wall and pressed close to Hannibal's back, arms and legs wrapped around him so that they are both under the thick cover of the cloak.

Hannibal sighs, pressing his lips together, and turns into the crook of his elbow to shield his face from the cold. He presses back against Will, seeking more warmth. Will makes a sleepy noise against the back of his neck, arm tightening around his chest.

Hannibal smiles to himself. They are no strangers to huddling for warmth on the long and unforgiving trek from the border to the Capitol, and have had to make do sharing cramped, intimate quarters for many nights. Still, it strikes Hannibal every morning, waking up with Will in his arms, or Hannibal in Will's. He has seldom had a companion so loyal that expected nothing from him. Their friendship and shared direction of travel was a matter of convenience, and came with no promise of riches or reward, though Hannibal intends to give Will both in spades once he is King again.

Rather, Will's simple, animal loyalty settles him. Life in a palace comes with ambition and plot. Survival is underhanded and cruel, not a matter of huddling for warmth or sharing meat over a fire.

Will sighs, behind him. Hannibal covers Will's hand with his own to warm his fingers as Will shifts his weight, nuzzling the sagging back of Hannibal's tunic before he pushes himself upright, blinking blearily. He yawns, into the back of his wrist, and shakes himself like a dog ridding itself of water.

Hannibal rolls onto his back and smiles up at him. "Good morning, Will."

"Mornin'," Will rasps. He yawns again, and pulls his right shoulder across his chest until it pops, and he winces. He stands. "I'll go check the damage. Breakfast?"

Hannibal nods, and pushes himself upright, wincing as well at the ache in his hip and shoulder which settled against such unforgiving cold ground for so long. He fishes out the meat he wrapped and resuscitates the fire until it's hot enough to cook with.

"Damn it," he hears Will say, and looks up as Will tugs on the cloaks to reveal there is a wall of snow in front of the shack, only barely letting in a slip of daylight from the top. Will glares at it as though its existence personally offends him, and then looks up. "We'll have to climb out."

Hannibal sighs to himself.

"You sure picked a Hell of a time to travel to the Capitol, friend," Will adds, coming back to the fire and warming his hands at it while Hannibal carefully arranges one of their pans, balanced on loose brick that is on the floor of the shack, so that he can sear and fry the meat atop the metal. They ran out of seasonings and spices a while ago; the next stop is the Capitol itself and they are still several days away. It reminds Hannibal of when he was originally taken, saved and spared by the grace of whatever God watched over him that night. The journey had been long, salted pork and stale bread and nights spent on rough ground, when they stopped at all.

At least this time the company is much more pleasant, the future much more promising.

"As did you," he replies with a smile, meeting Will's eyes. "You never did tell me why you are venturing this way."

"Mm, well, you're not exactly forthcoming with details either," Will replies, and blinks at him slowly, like a contented cat. "Just 'urgent business with the King'." His tone holds no distrust, there's no suspicion in his eyes, but his voice also lacks levity. Like he knows there is more to Hannibal than he has been told, but hesitates to press.

Hannibal smiles. "Long overdue."

Will's eyes narrow. "I'm not a fool, Hannibal," he says quietly. Hannibal tilts his head. "You speak our language too well to be truly foreign, even with our neighbor's accent. That sword." He nods to the gleaming golden hilt, jutting out of Hannibal's pack. "It is too well-made to belong to a commoner."

Hannibal presses his lips together. "So, what conclusion do you draw?"

"If silence lets me keep my head then that's what I'll answer with."

Hannibal smiles. "Are you normally this careful?"

"You could be an assassin, a diplomat, a Goddamn spy for all I know," Will says, with no judgement in his voice, no fear – stating things plainly, the same way he might tell Hannibal they were snowed in or they were out of food. He is not a man to let his pragmatism be overcome by fear. "I've seen how you handle a blade. How you can gut a deer without flinching."

"Mm, and what about you?" Hannibal counters, reaching out with that very blade and skewering the servings of meat, flipping them over on the pan so they cook evenly. A small, pitiful burst of steam rises up, quickly swallowed by the unforgiving cold. Will tilts his head. "What possessed you to make this journey during the winter?"

Will's lips twitch in a smile. "I suppose we both suffer the threat of urgency," he replies.

"Are you running away, Will?"

"What makes you ask that?"

Hannibal smiles at him, and wraps his gloved hand around the pan, offering Will his serving. Will takes it, hissing at the heat of the meat when it touches his bare hands, but bites into it readily enough. Hannibal does as well, eager to fill his belly with something warm.

"You never told me what business you had in the Capitol," Hannibal tells him. "And I doubt you were simply going there on a whim."

"Maybe I don't have any business in the Capitol," Will counters.

"Then why make this journey at all?"

Will swallows his mouthful, and sighs. His jaw clenches as he sets the edges of his teeth together. "I'm sorry I asked," he murmurs. "I'll trade my silence for yours."

"Now you have made me very curious," Hannibal says. "You are remarkably capable of surviving these awful climates, and have not complained once of soreness, or the weather, or the company."

"I have no issue with my company," Will says with a smile.

"Nor I, but that's not my point."

"What is your point, then?"

"What would possess a man of your skill and capabilities to run away from your home? It couldn't be a threat – you have nothing you fear leaving behind, for how readily you were willing to come with me. You can provide for yourself, and for others. You have a…way about you, one I have not seen in common folk."

Will's brow creases in confusion.

"A selfish loyalty," Hannibal explains.

"Ah." Will's expression clears, and he laughs. "Let's just say I know who is worth being friends with, and who isn't."

"Every word you speak makes my curiosity sharpen."

Will grins, and finishes his food. He sighs and rubs his hands on his clothes, and then over his face to clear it of dripping juice. "We should move on," he says, and pushes himself to his feet. "The storm has passed for now but it's still snowing outside. We won't be able to keep going if we stay here."

Hannibal nods, finishing his meal and standing. It is easy to take some snow from the doorway and dump it over the fire as Will gathers their cloaks and packs, and hands Hannibal his. The angle of the broken part of the ceiling makes it relatively simple to climb out, and Hannibal winces at the bright shine of sunlight on the dense blanket of snow. It rises in giant hills, the path a mere suggestion at this point. The snow is fluffy and soft and when he steps into it, he sinks to his knee.

He huffs. "This will be a tough final leg," he replies.

"Harper Forest is only a few miles away," Will tells him. "It should be clearer there."

Hannibal nods. The forest frames the Northern and Western edge of the Capitol, and since they are coming from the West, they will hit the forest first. Hannibal remembers it from his youth, the trees tall and black and heavy with leaves that protect the ground beneath. Even in the worst downpours, the cover is dense enough that there is no fear of being soaked.

He thinks he can see it, from their high vantage point; a blanket of black on the horizon. They pull their hoods up and put their faces down, and continue on.

They travel for another two days. It is nightfall again by the time they make it to the forest, shaky with exhaustion and hardly able to move for being so sore. They journey another half-mile in before Will collapses, panting, and rolls so he's slouched against the strong cradle of jutting roots at the base of a giant oak.

"I just need to rest," he says weakly. "I'm sorry."

"Nonsense, Will, we can camp here tonight," Hannibal replies. There are predators in this forest, after all, and they have no torches dry enough to light, let alone use for light to walk by. Will smiles, and tilts his face up, pushing his hood from his head. His face is flushed and shines with sweat, his lips chapped. He paws at the waterskin hanging from his hip and tilts it up to soothe his dry mouth.

"I'll gather some firewood," Hannibal tells him. Will nods weakly, and accepts Hannibal's pack, tucking it close to him so he can guard it while Hannibal forages. It is easy to find sticks small and dry enough to light, and he returns half an hour later to find Will hanging up his soaked cloak on a low bough, and he has cleared away some of the fallen leaves to create a dry spot where they can light their fire.

Beneath the canopy, the air is humid and almost warm, though Hannibal is sure it only feels warm in comparison to the harsh tundra beyond the forest. He builds and lights their fire and Will sighs in relief, hunched close to it.

"We still have some bread," Hannibal offers. Will nods. They can't risk cooking meat in the middle of the night, lest an animal smell it and come investigating. Hannibal unwraps the last of their dry food and hands Will a wad of bread, crouched down and eating his own, his eyes on the ring of darkness surrounding them.

Will consumes with a ravenous hunger, the bread gone in mere moments. But it seems to satisfy him. Though, Hannibal knows by now, Will is careful with his rations, and will not ask for more unless Hannibal assures him they have enough to make it to the Capitol. He's not sure they do.

He finishes his own bread, feels the sharp pangs of hunger in his stomach lessen to a dull background throb. Beneath the canopy of the trees, the air is somber and quiet, barely even a rustle to denote there are other things in the forest with them.

"We will make it to the Capitol by nightfall tomorrow, if we rise early and hurry," Will tells him.

Hannibal nods. "What will you do, once we're there?"

Will's lips quirk in a lopsided smile, showing the dimples in his cheeks. "I imagine I will find the nearest inn and sleep for a year," he jokes. "After a bath," he adds, wrinkling his nose. Hannibal can sympathize. Despite how cold it is, the amount of exertion they have both had to make has caked their bodies with sweat. They stink of it, stale and sharp, though Hannibal knows it is no worse than how a common man might smell.

"Will you rush to the King right away?" Will asks. The way he asks it is loaded, his eyes glittering like buried treasure beneath a deep lake.

"A bath would be nice," Hannibal concedes.

Will smiles at him again. "Not so urgent, then," he teases. Hannibal resists the urge to reply; he's sure Will knows why Hannibal would be loathe to leave him quite so soon. The notion of waking up in a warm bed with a solid roof over his head is an attractive one, but the thought that it would mean not waking up with Will is…less so. He has grown used to listening to Will's quiet snores and the occasional shift of his weight as they huddle for warmth. Of eating meat Will has hunted.

He fully intends, once he is King again, to reward Will. To knight him, if Will desires. He could give Will land, a title, an estate of his own if he wanted. A position in court, since Will has proven such a steadfast and loyal friend.

Of course, if Will wants nothing more to do with him after, Hannibal will deal with that when the time comes. He has lied, after all, and sometimes a sin of omission is not one owed forgiveness. Will may be horrified that he helped overthrow the usurper. He may fear for his life from the loyalists still remaining. Hannibal doesn't know enough about him, except to know Will doesn't seem to care all that much who is in charge.

But these thoughts can wait for another time. Will looks as exhausted as Hannibal feels, and so he stands and circles the fire, joining Will against the tree. Will smiles at him, his eyes dark with shadows, and allows them to merge their cloaks together to make a small bed beneath them, Will's second cloak acting as a blanket.

"Hannibal," he murmurs, as the fire begins to fade to embers, radiating only heat and very little light. Hannibal hums in acknowledgement. "I would like to remain your friend, after your business is taken care of."

He speaks like he knows Hannibal means to do more with the King than merely speak about trade or travel. There is no fear in his voice, but a calm certainty that compels him to question if they will, in fact, remain friends after all is said and done.

"I would like that too, Will," Hannibal replies, and means it. Will's answering smile is brilliant. He looks at home, here, surrounded by the wild. There is still a small streak of pink across his forehead that sweat has not washed away, from his hunt before the abandoned house. "You must let me know where you intend to stay, so that I can call on you when my business is finished."

Will merely stares at him, at that, expression guileless and smooth as a statue. He says nothing, and turns in to Hannibal after a while, huddling for warmth. Hannibal wraps an arm around Will's shoulders, strong and muscular from using his bow, as Will lifts a leg and pushes it between Hannibal's so they can cling to each other.

Hannibal is awoken by jostling, and a frantic voice calling his name.

"Hannibal, wake up! We have to move."

Hannibal opens his eyes to find Will above him, packed and ready, his bow and pack across his back, his sword half-drawn. He moves back as Hannibal rises, immediately alert in the wake of Will's sharp-eyed, wary surveillance of the surrounding trees.

Will hands him his pack and his sword and is on the move before Hannibal can even fasten it to his back. "Come," he says sharply, like calling an animal to heel. Hannibal follows him, catching up swiftly. He was right – beneath the trees the snow is much thinner, though dense and packed down to be almost ice. Still, Will walks the path as light-footed as the deer he hunts, and moves swiftly.

"Did you hear something?" Hannibal asks, but he has already answered his own question. He can smell the dander of horses, the sweat of other men. Will's scent is as known to him now as his own, and he can pick out others far too close to them; saddle polish and oil, the crisp metallic scent of steel.

Will doesn't answer, merely lifts a finger to his lips to beg Hannibal's silence. They keep moving, and Will's eyes are wild as a trapped animal, darting to and fro as they travel. It is still nightfall, almost too dark to see, though above them the moon and beginnings of sunrise are doing their best to light the way.

Will leads them through a cluster of trees and pauses, his eyes narrowed on the clearing ahead of them. It is very large, and much too exposed for Hannibal's liking. He thinks, if he listens hard enough, he can hear the whisper of booted feet and the muted thumps of horses behind them. It may be his imagination, but it is far too risky to test it.

"If we hurry, we can make it," he says, with an assurance he's not sure he feels.

Will presses his lips together, and eyes him over his shoulder. Then, beyond Hannibal, to the dark forest behind him. He huffs in frustration and lightly grazes the edge of his sword's sheath with his gloved fingertips.

"We can't go around, Will," Hannibal adds. The clearing is much too vast, and the path is clear across it. If they were to attempt to find another, in this darkness, they might wander for hours, and would be sitting ducks for whoever Will believes is pursuing them.

Will lets out a resigned noise, like the last exhale of a dying man. He turns to face Hannibal fully and grips his shoulder. "If we get cornered," he says hoarsely, "I will protect you. Do you trust me?"

Hannibal tilts his head. If they get cornered, Hannibal is just as capable with a blade as Will is. He is not entirely helpless. But there is a light in Will's eyes that begs obedience, and Hannibal is not sure what Will believes is following them. If he thinks it is bandits, that doesn't justify the clear worry in his eyes. If he knows it is an army, as Hannibal suspects, then he is not asking why they are trying to hunt them.

Curious.

But; "I do," Hannibal says. Because he does trust Will. He has no reason not to.

Will's lips twitch into a smile that is more like a grimace. He nods, and turns away. He pulls his sword out as silently as the air inside a tomb, and crouches low. Keeps his pace fast, but light, and Hannibal follows him as they emerge into the clearing. The rising sun is not bright enough to make Hannibal wince, but in the open he is aware of just _how_ exposed they are, and a shiver runs down his spine, unable to ignore the feeling that they are being watched.

They are halfway across the clearing when a man steps out from the other side. He is a brute of a man, almost a head taller than Hannibal, and built like a bear. His face is hidden by a large helmet fashioned to look like a boar, a crest on his breastplate resembling that of Mason Verger, the Usurper.

Will stops, immediately, and bares his teeth at the man. "Stand aside," he snarls. His grip on his sword is steady, but he is also twitching his fingers for his bow. Hannibal draws his own sword, sensing the fight coming like a storm on the horizon.

The man brays with laughter, and from beside him, more emerge. From their flanks, men creep from the forest. Behind them, another hulking man with the same impressive, daunting boar mask appears. They are all wearing the Verger crest, and carrying giant broadswords and wearing enough armor that Hannibal knows they would have the advantage in a fight. There is chainmail covering their underarms, their necks, their thighs, protecting them from all but the worst of blows. They must all be strong to be carrying so much weight. Hannibal turns so his back is to Will, pressed close, so that they can't be snuck up on.

Will lifts his sword and points it at the first man. "Stand aside, Cordell," he says again. Hannibal blinks at him in surprise, turning to frown at Will. How does he know this man's name? "I have no fight with you."

"You have a fight with all of us, coward," the man – Cordell – replies. "Since the moment you defected, there is a bounty on your head. A King's ransom."

Hannibal frowns, lowering his sword in surprise. Will's jaw is clenched, face twisted into a fierce scowl that Hannibal imagines would strike fear into the hearts of many. "Defected?" he echoes, too quietly, he is sure, for any but Will to hear him.

Will's shoulders tense. He looks at Hannibal from the corner of his eye. Hannibal thinks about his skill, with both blade and bow. His ability to survive in the wild. His dogged loyalty to Hannibal, once they agreed to travel together.

It is not unlike, he thinks, the behavior of a knight.

Will's eyes flash, and he looks back at Cordell. "I have a letter from the King," he says, lowering his blade. Hannibal almost drops his own in shock. Will sheathes his sword and reaches into the inner pocket of his tunic, and reveals a piece of parchment, folded many times. "Come, read it yourself."

Cordell pauses, and then takes off his helm, revealing a round head with thinning hair, and beady eyes. He gestures for Will to come forward, and Will does, leaving Hannibal alone in the ring of soldiers still staring at him with dark gazes. Hannibal tenses, his grip tight around his sword. Why does Will have a letter from the usurper? Why does he speak with this man as though he knows him?

If Will was a knight, a servant of Mason, who was tasked to seek Hannibal out and bring him to the Capitol….

Well, Hannibal walked right into the trap, didn't he?

Anger burns in him so fiercely he feels blind with it, and barely hears when Cordell unfolds the parchment Will hands him, squinting down at the words. Hannibal turns so he can see, and Cordell's eyes widen in surprise. He looks to Will in question.

"His Majesty bade me flee my company," Will says. "No one knew but my Captain. My situation had to be genuine."

Cordell frowns. If nothing else, he looks disappointed, that this moment will not end in bloodshed. He looked down at the parchment again, lips moving as he reads.

"It does not say here," he says slowly, "that we must bring the false King in alive."

Will purses his lips in consideration, and turns to meet Hannibal's eyes. Hannibal scowls at him. "You are a traitorous man," he hisses. "To your country, and your friends."

Will's expression doesn't change. He hands Cordell his torch, draws his sword again and looks at Cordell. "May I do the honors?" he asks. "You have not had to travel with him on the road for so long."

Cordell laughs, and claps a hand on Will's shoulder. "Be my guest."

Hannibal tenses, whirling on Will and lifting his sword. He unclips his pack and lets it fall to the ground as Will takes a step closer. Hannibal knows, should Will decide to use his bow, he will have the advantage of distance, but Hannibal is a good swordsman, and should be able to best Will.

The rest, well, perhaps he can convince them to bring him to the castle alive, where at least he will have some time to plot his next move. The immediate danger here is Will. Will, who has betrayed him, and brought him all this way only to turn on him when Hannibal was so close. Will, who lied, and called himself Hannibal's friend.

Hannibal imagines plunging his sword straight through Will's stomach, gutting him like they have gut deer together, and settles into a ready stance.

Will is just a step away from Cordell. He tilts his head to one side, and plunges his sword into the ground by the tip, so it remains upright within the hard-packed snow. He unfastens his pack as Hannibal did, and lets it drop, shoulders rolling as he sighs. He takes his bow off, too, and carefully rests it leaning against the pack with his quiver of arrows.

Then, he takes his sword back in hand with a grunt of effort, pulling it from the snow. Their eyes meet. "Did you always know?" Hannibal rasps. He can't help himself. Will considers him, but makes no move closer. Perhaps he is a coward. Maybe he doesn't trust his own skill. "Were you laughing to yourself this whole time, calling me a fool, as you led me to your trap?"

Will swallows. "Do you remember what I said to you, Hannibal?" he asks. "Just moments ago. Do you remember?"

Hannibal's brow creases. He doesn't want to think about the things Will has said to him. He doesn't want to think about Will's smile, or his warmth, his hands as they curled around Hannibal, sheltering him and letting him rest. How he so diligently hunted for both of them. How he would laugh, and tease, and how he crafted such delicate half-lies with that silver tongue.

Yet, he does remember.

_If we get cornered, I will protect you. Do you trust me?_

They are certainly cornered. Hannibal's trust belongs to the version of Will he thought was his friend. The one who hadn't been carrying around an order from the usurper all this time. The one who -.

Is looking at him earnestly. Treasure in the ocean, luring him in. Will's gaze is steady, unwavering. Gone is the fear, the feral animal quality that had bid them hurry to this killing field. Now, he is steady, no nerves at all. He should be nervous, if he truly intends to fight Hannibal. Will is a pragmatic man, proud, but not haughty. He does not hunt animals he can't kill, and doesn't pick fights he can't win.

Hannibal presses his lips together, and says; "I remember."

Will smiles. He takes a step forward, lifting his sword in preparation to strike. But he is much too far away to do Hannibal harm, even if he were to leap forward. Hannibal watches, wide-eyed, as Will pivots on his heel, and brings his sword down in a clean, savage stroke aimed right for Cordell's exposed neck.

Because he made Cordell read something, which forced him to take off his helm and expose himself.

Hannibal, through his shock, smiles. What a cunning boy Will is.

Blood arcs up in a fountain, spraying almost comically far across the snow-covered field. In the following beat of stunned silence, before the body even falls with a glugging gurgle and Cordell clawing at his own severed neck, Will takes up his bow, slings his quiver across his back, draws and notches an arrow, and lets it loose to the man closest to Cordell. It pierces him straight through one of the eye holes in his helm. The man doesn't even make a sound, except the heavy thud as he hits the ground.

Chaos explodes after that. Hannibal rushes to Will and puts his back to Will to protect him, as Will takes up his sword again. The other gathered soldiers are too close for him to be of any use with his bow, so he drops it and swings at the nearest soldier as the other man lunges.

Hannibal has three men approaching his side at once. The first one leaps for him with a wild yell, and Hannibal easily knocks his sword to one side, grabbing the hunting blade tucked into his belt. The man's momentum careens him into Hannibal, and they go skidding an inch until Hannibal hits Will. He takes out his knife and plunges it into the man's eye. He screams, for it cannot go deep enough to instantly kill him, so Hannibal removes it and shoves it into the man's mouth instead, making him choke on his own blood and the torn-up innards of his mouth.

He kicks the man away and parries the second one. This one is smarter, less inclined to rush headlong into a fight. He lures Hannibal away from Will and a third soldier circles behind him. Hannibal has to keep an eye on both of them, and hears Will grunting with effort as he, too, fights for his life.

One soldier lunges for him, his giant sword coming down in a heavy swing that Hannibal dodges, and it embeds itself in the ground. He yanks on it and Hannibal takes the advantage, clumsily shoving up the protective mail on his neck and slitting his throat, dousing his companion and his sword with his blood.

The third man jumps back with a horrified cry, and Hannibal advances on him. The scent of blood and bodies voiding themselves is thick in the air, with no wind or rain or Earth to overpower it. It is, upon the snow, at its purest, even as their boots stir up the snow and leave muddy prints behind.

He hears a pained cry, and turns to see Will dropping to one knee, clutching at his flank and breathing hard. He's soaked with sweat, blood staining his clothes from the waist down, and there's a mean-looking tear in his tunic a few inches below his arm, blood flowing thick and bright between his fingers as he tries to stymy the flow.

Hannibal cannot spare a moment to help him – this third attacker has taken advantage of his distraction, and come close. He doesn't attack with his sword, as Hannibal expected, but instead gives him a blow to his cheek that makes his ears ring, and he stumbles back, leaning on his sword for balance. The man grins at this apparent victory, and presses the advantage. Hannibal grits his teeth and swings with his sword, the tip of it skating off the man's breastplate. He lunges, sending Hannibal crashing to the ground, and Hannibal kicks at him and manages to roll them, their swords locked by the guard.

He has the upper hand, quite literally, able to use his weight to keep the man's sword down, but he can't spare a free hand to grab his knife or otherwise do harm without losing the edge. He grits his teeth, trying to push it all the way down so that he can work the man's own sword under his chainmail, but it's slow going, and the screech of metal on metal is loud.

A shadow falls across him, and he looks up to find Will standing over him. He looks delirious with pain and blood loss, his sword dripping red onto the ground. Their eyes meet, and Will collapses to his knees just shy of the soldier's head. He reaches for Hannibal's knife, takes it, and wraps his other hand in the decoration on top of the soldier's helmet.

He yanks it free, making the man cry out and wince up at them. Hannibal shoves their swords against his throat while Will plunges the hunting knife through his cheek, and up, with the same brutal efficiency with which he dissects their hunts. The man's hands go limp around his sword, allowing Hannibal to finish him with one more heavy push and a loud grunt.

Will breathes out, shoulders low. He's still bleeding rather heavily. In his wake is a slew of bodies, all in their own puddles of blood. Hannibal releases the soldier's sword beneath him, and cups Will's skull, threading his fingers through his soaking wet hair.

Will rests his forehead on Hannibal's shoulder. He's trusting, and lax, and his breaths come with a rattle, misting against Hannibal's neck.

Hannibal freezes, at the sound of clapping. He turns to see the second helmed man, who had not come to join the fray, still standing where he was on the edge of the clearing. Will looks up, bleary-eyed, shuddering as Hannibal gets to his feet and helps him upright.

The man approaches them, and Hannibal tenses and lifts his sword in warning. "Be at ease, my King," the man says, and removes his helm, revealing a face that conjures a vague memory in Hannibal's mind. He frowns, a half-formed shadow of a man swimming into the memories from his childhood, from the evacuation. He had been put on a horse in front of a beast of a man, and they had ridden hard away from the castle, Hannibal tucked up tight in a cloak so his face was hidden, the man's breastplate solid and freezing against his body.

"Captain Crawford," he murmurs, and lowers the tip of his sword just an inch.

Jack smiles at them both, and nods. "It is good to see you, Hannibal," he says, with the proud voice of a father. "You have grown much since we last met."

Will shivers, beside Hannibal, drawing Jack's attention. "And you, Will. You did well."

Will nods.

Hannibal frowns in confusion.

"You must forgive Will his lies, my King," Jack says. "And mine, if you can. We received word from your uncle that you would be returning, and the plan had to be small, and convincing."

Hannibal's frown deepens. "But the message from -."

"A forgery," Jack says with another smile, and a nod of his head. "The King's sister is sympathetic to our cause. She copied his hand for me to give Will this command, so that he might be able to slip past most of the guard." His face darkens. "The usurper found out what she had done, and has put her in irons, and sent Cordell's company to find and capture you. She must not have told him of my involvement, or I may have suffered a similar fate."

Will collapses, at that moment, down to his knees, coughing up a thin amount of blood onto the ground. Hannibal almost falls with him, since he was holding Will so tightly. "He's wounded," he murmurs, testing Will's torn flank with a gentle hand. Will whimpers, face screwed up in pain, but seems determined to remain awake. Hannibal admires his strength, though he is still reeling from these revelations.

Jack nods, and comes forward, touching a hand to Will's clammy forehead. "There are horses nearby," he says. "If you can trust me, my King, there is a camp a few miles away where there are others who have eagerly awaited your return. We can tend to him there. If you cannot trust me, I will leave you, but he might not make it."

Hannibal shakes his head. Despite his confusion, his lingering anger, he will not let Will die. Not without getting his answers, at least. He takes Will in his arms and lifts him, holding him like a bride. Will's cheek rests on his shoulder, his eyes falling closed.

"We will go with you," Hannibal says. Jack nods, and gathers their packs and Will's bow and arrows, and his sword as it falls from his limp hand, and the knife still embedded in the last soldier's skull. He holds it all like it weighs nothing.

"This way."

The camp is at the very edge of the forest and Hannibal finds that, despite his years of separation, there are some faces he recognizes. There is Chiyoh, who lived with him in the castle, and disappeared after the uprising. There is Bedelia, his father's former consort, and Diane Komeda, who taught Hannibal how to play the piano before they all had to flee.

A doctor comes to take Will, and Hannibal cannot bear to leave him alone. He follows the man into his tent and lays Will down on a bed of blankets, and steps back, watching as the doctor cuts away Will's tunic and cloak to bare his chest. The cut on his side is a deep, angry red, already with a halo of bruising around it. There are other scars on Will that were not placed in Hannibal's company – an older one in his shoulder, and deep bruises that must have been placed recently if they are only just now beginning to fade.

No wonder he was so tired all the time, and moved with such stiffness. Suddenly, his ability to keep pace with Hannibal is all the more admirable.

Hannibal stays with him as the doctor cleans and sews his wound and binds it with bandages across his chest. He assists with bathing Will, so that he does not get sick, and stocks the fire so that Will is kept warm from the pervasive chill outside.

"It is good you are back," the doctor tells him. His name is Sutcliffe, and while Hannibal does not know him, he seems to know Will, for how fondly he gazes at the man. "Your return has been eagerly awaited, Your Majesty."

Hannibal nods, unable to find words to answer him. He did not think there were still so many loyal to his family. It is a relief to be among friends.

The doctor leaves, citing a need to gather more herbs to keep Will's fever down. Hannibal remains with Will, still reeling from the recent events. Will must have known that Hannibal would react badly to his apparent betrayal. Even still, it burns in him, to think he was so easily tricked.

He brushes his hand through Will's hair, petting it away from his face. Will's lashes flutter, and lift a fraction, revealing a slip of his dark gaze. Hannibal smiles, he cannot help it. "Don't move," he murmurs gently. "You are badly injured."

"Had worse," Will coughs, and winces. He reaches up and wraps his fingers around Hannibal's wrist. "Are you alright?"

Hannibal nods.

"Where are we?"

"An encampment," Hannibal says, "on the edge of the forest. In the presence of friends. You need not fret."

Will nods, once. His eyes open a little more, staring up at Hannibal with a trace of wariness. "I'm sorry I had to lie," he says. "I wanted to tell you."

"Your plot was complicated," Hannibal concedes. "Much could have gone wrong. Are you normally so unpredictable?"

"Only with my friends," Will says.

Hannibal hums.

"Of course," Will adds with another wince, "if you no longer wish to call me your friend, I don't blame you. A King should surround himself with honest men."

"And loyal ones," Hannibal agrees. Will sighs. "But you are honest, Will. Frightfully honest, I should think. I don't believe you ever technically told me a falsehood; you simply let me believe whatever I desired of you."

Will sighs again, and Hannibal turns his hand, gripping Will's and lacing their fingers together.

"I would have rewarded you for helping me, had this gone the way I expected it to," Hannibal says.

"Would have," Will echoes. "And now?"

"Now…I am not sure."

Will says nothing, but his eyes darken with distress. He looks more distraught than Hannibal has ever seen him. Even when he was dying in the field, he did not look so upset.

"Were you a knight?" Hannibal asks.

Will nods. "The Verger law is that all men from the age of five are enlisted to the army," he replies. "I went, and I served. I proved myself a capable archer, a good hunter. I was given to Jack's company, and while there, I found an old tome in his library, telling of your family. I had no idea Mason was not the lawful King. When I learned that, I was enraged. A fire lit itself inside me like nothing I'd felt before, when Jack told me what happened to your family."

He says it all slowly, voice hoarse, but his grip is strong.

"And when I met you, I…." He trails off, a touch of pink coloring his pale cheeks. It heartens Hannibal to see; Will regaining color is a good sign. Will sighs, and says, "I knew I would follow you anywhere."

Hannibal smiles, warmed by the words. "Your loyalty is touching, Will."

"It is not just loyalty, my King," Will whispers. His eyes, so suddenly sharp, burn Hannibal in place. "Surely…. You must know that."

Hannibal nods. He does know. He cups Will's face with his free hand, brushing a tender touch over his cheek. Will's lashes flutter, but he refuses to break gazes first. He is a wild creature, honed to a sharp point by a master he has chosen to reject. His dogged loyalty has found a new home in Hannibal's company.

"I need you to recover, Will," Hannibal says. "Stay with me. When this is over."

Will's lips twitch. "Where else would I go?"

"Anywhere you like," Hannibal promises. "You are a free man, after this, I swear it. Not a defector, not a coward. You will be remembered as the man who saved and served your King."

Will's smile widens. His eyes, finally, must close, as exhaustion comes for him. "Word of Cordell's fate will reach the usurper soon," he breathes. "We cannot afford to delay. I want to be by your side, but…."

The frustrated noise he makes is familiar to Hannibal, endearing, and warms him to the bone, more than any fire could. Hannibal cups his face and leans down to kiss his forehead, damp with fresh water from Hannibal cleaning him.

"Rest, my dear Will," he coaxes. "I will remain with you for as long as I can."

Will nods, once, and Hannibal tucks a blanket up around him as Will's grip goes loose, and he falls asleep.

Will is right, though Hannibal wishes it were not so. Less than six hours later, Jack comes to him and tells him that the Capitol is wild with the usurper's rage, now that he has heard of what happened to his company.

"We must strike quickly," Jack says, as Hannibal takes up his sword and covers his face with a hood. He does not want to leave Will, but he must. There are half a dozen men able to fight at the encampment, and he must go with them alone.

There is a back way into the Capitol. It is the same way Hannibal escaped as a child, and the sewers and wet stone conjure buried half-memories within him as they pass through, and emerge in the washrooms and wine cellar beneath the palace. The single guard there is dealt with swiftly, and they move on.

They pass by the jail cells, and Hannibal pauses, remembering what Jack said about Mason's sister. He goes in. The cells are packed, both with fresh inmates and old, rotting corpses that have not been removed. It is a gruesome and terrible place, and Hannibal grimaces at the stench. Jack leads him to a cell that is somewhat cleaner than the others, and has but a single occupant. She is a willowy woman with eyes of sea glass, her hair long and greasy falling down her back. She trembles in the cold and blinks at them like a lost lamb, eyes widening in recognition when she sees Hannibal.

She falls to her knees. "My Lord," she breathes.

"I've been told you are here for betraying your brother," Hannibal says. She nods, pressing her lips together. "Where does your loyalty lie?"

"With the rightful King," she says without hesitation. "With you."

Hannibal nods. "If I free you, can you find your way out through the cellars?" he asks. "There is a camp a few miles from here, and a servant of yours."

"Will," she breathes. "Is he alive?"

"Yes."

She smiles, looking relieved. Hannibal would like to know how they met each other, one day. Or if she even knew of him as a person, or as simply one of Jack's trusted men, that would help her carry out her plan.

"I will go to him," she promises. Hannibal nods, and uses the keys from the guard to open her cell. She rushes from it with another nod of thanks, and disappears back the way they came.

They carry on, up to the main court chambers, the large and wide hallways that Hannibal has not seen since his youth. They are at once the same and so utterly different. The portraits of his ancestors have been removed or defaced, some paintings torn to shreds and left to hang like mocking testaments to the usurper's cruelty.

Hannibal knows Mason will be in the King's chambers, likely barricaded and guarded to the teeth. Because he is a coward and a snake, and cannot fight on his own. Even as a child, Hannibal had known that.

It is a bloody and terrible fight to get to the upper levels where the King's chambers are. Hannibal mourns the lives of those that they fell, for most of them are Will's age, and might not know that they are defending a snake, and losing their lives to his undeserved rule. But he cannot afford to be merciful, not now.

The King's chamber is guarded by another half dozen men. They are armed, and ready for them. Hannibal has greater numbers than them, between his own company, Jack, and himself, but his group are less well-armed, none of them have more than a breastplate aside from Jack.

The alarm has been raised. It blares throughout the city. Hannibal feels the energy of the place like ice on his skin.

"Stand down," he commands, "and you will be spared."

"It is the rightful King that stands before you," Jack declares. "Let the usurper come out and face him like a man! But he will not, for he is a snake, and hides away in his hole."

The men do not budge. Hannibal sighs, and shakes his head. "You don't need to die for him," he insists. "Lay down your arms now and you will be spared, I swear it."

Some of them, the youngest ones, look hesitant. The leader, a man at least Jack's age, is glaring at them openly. "You are a traitor, Crawford," he hisses. "The rightful King is His Majesty, Mason Verger. Surrender now and he may spare your life."

Jack laughs, and shakes his head, readying his sword.

"Very well, then," the leader says, and leads the charge. Hannibal goes for him, first, hoping that perhaps if he falls, his less eager comrades will step down. But the man is large and much better rested than Hannibal is.

He also has a heavy hand, and swings his sword with the power of a raging bull. Hannibal barely manages to stop the first blow, an ache running through his shoulders and down his back, his sword vibrating in his grip. He knocks the other man's sword away with the guard and rushes for him, shoulder to his chest to get him stumbling back. The man backs up a pace and swings at Hannibal with a wild yell, only to be caught by Jack and shoved away from the door. It is cleared, since Hannibal brought enough men to take on each of the others one on one.

"Go, my King!" Jack yells. "We will deal with this lot."

Hannibal nods, and shoves his way through the heavy iron doors. Inside, the room is dark, lit only with a few candles. He narrows his eyes and looks around, ready for an attack from any direction.

He hears the laugh, first, like a sick animal. "My Lord Hannibal," comes a voice behind it. He catches movement by the window, a subtle shift of golden robes. "How nice of you to finally come out of hiding."

Hannibal steps forward. He has never seen an image of Mason, but the man looks just as he imagined; he is frail, his robes far too large for him, and has the pallor of a sickly man. His face is awfully scarred, like he was mauled by a dog years ago, his lips thin and stuck in a permanent frown, the very tip of his nose missing. Still, his eyes shine with intelligence, and glitter like a knife in the dark.

"Surrender, Mason," Hannibal says. "It's over."

Mason scowls at him. Then, he smiles. "Of course," he says graciously, and gestures for Hannibal to come forward. "I see no reason for further bloodshed. I am not as thirsty for it as you, it seems. Come, have a drink with me, and we can negotiate the terms of my surrender."

Hannibal's eyes narrow, but he steps forward, towards the table Mason gestured to. There is wine on it, and two empty glasses. Mason pours them each a cup, and hands Hannibal his. Hannibal takes it, nostrils flaring as he breathes in the scent of the wine. The scent of the poison is like peaches, and much too sweet.

Mason lifts his glass, smiling. "To your long and happy reign," he says. Hannibal nods. He doesn't break Mason's gaze as Mason watches him, waiting to drink. He doesn't. Mason doesn't either. Hannibal smiles when Mason's eyes flash with nervousness.

"I am not a child, nor a fool," Hannibal says mildly. "I insist you drink first, my Lord."

Mason laughs, nasal and high. "It is rude to drink before a King," he says.

"It is also rude to steal his throne and slaughter his family," Hannibal replies. "But who's keeping score?"

Mason lets out a sound, a slight buzz of air from his nose. His eyes narrow. "I really must insist, my Lord," he says tightly. Hannibal sets his glass down, shaking his head.

"No," he replies, and hefts his sword again. "But as you said; I am no stranger to bloodshed."

Mason howls in anger, and from his sleeve he takes a sharp, needle-like blade, and lunges for Hannibal. Hannibal jerks back, narrowly avoiding getting nicked by the blade. He swings around and pulls at Mason's too-large robes, jerking him back. Mason wriggles against him like a serpent, out of his robes, so that he is dressed only in his night clothes and Hannibal is holding his empty robe.

He drops it, and Mason leaps for him again. Hannibal turns and kicks him in his back, sending him stumbling into the table, knocking over the pitcher of wine and the cups. Before Mason can rise, Hannibal goes to him, and sets his sword on the back of Mason's neck. His other hand grips Mason's wrist and twists it, forcing him to drop the blade.

"Was that poisoned too, I wonder?" he asks mildly, wrenching Mason's arm up until he screams. "I should like to kill you slowly, to make you drink whatever you were going to give me. Knowing your reputation, it would have been slow, and very painful. Am I wrong?"

Mason thrashes beneath him, but can't otherwise move. "My Lord, mercy!"

"Mercy?" Hannibal repeats, tilting his head. Beyond the table, there is a window, with no glass, and wide enough to fit a man. "Very well."

He sets his sword down and hauls Mason up by his hair, and his arm, and drags him towards the window. Mason reaches out to catch himself with his free hand, panting and staring down at the grounds below. It is a very long, very steep drop. A journey with only one destination.

"No, please!" Mason cries. "What do you want? I can give you things. My armies, my jewels -."

"That you stole from my family," Hannibal snarls.

"My sister!" Mason says, turning his head. "She's good-tempered, and untouched. She would make a good consort or -."

Hannibal's stomach rolls with disgust. "I'm sorry," he says. "You seem to be under the impression that we are still negotiating. Allow me to correct that notion for you."

With that, he slams Mason's forehead against the side of the window, dazing him. Mason groans, a bead of blood dripping from the gash in his forehead. His grip on the window loosens, allowing Hannibal the little bit of leverage he needs to shove Mason over the lip of the window.

And then, through it.

The usurper's screams of terror are rather like those of howling dogs, he thinks, as he watches Mason drop to the ground, and paint it red.

The door bursts open, revealing Jack. There is a cut on his temple and he is holding his arm close to his side as though it has been twisted, but he's alive, and appears otherwise unharmed. Hannibal straightens, and gathers his sword. "The usurper is dead," he says.

Jack smiles. Behind him, the men that followed, and one of Mason's soldiers, peer in. Jack drops to one knee and bows his head, and the others follow suit. "Hail, King Hannibal. Long may he reign."

Hannibal smiles. Finally, after all this time, he has finally come home.

Still, he cannot help wishing Will was here, among those kneeling, so that they could share this victory together.

He flicks blood off his sword and sheathes it. The crown is on the bed, on an untouched pillow. Hannibal internally winces at the idea of wearing it after Mason did, but he takes it anyway, and wipes it down with the sleeve of his tunic. It was the same his father wore, Hannibal remembers; a circle of gold with rubies around the base.

It fits him perfectly.

Hannibal has his friends and loyalists moved into the castle so they can bathe, and eat, and then begin to enforce the new regime. He has Will moved into the chamber next to his own, which is both close to the doctor's quarters, and the personal chamber of the Queen. If anyone has comments on his choice, they keep them to themselves.

Hannibal cannot stay with him at all times. Will sleeps, for long stretches, only waking long enough for the doctor to feed him and clean his wounds. Hannibal always seems to come for him when he's asleep, but the doctor says that sleep is good, and means he will heal faster.

Six days after Mason's death, the castle is clean of all blood, the prisoners Mason caged for their loyalty to Hannibal released. Margot comes with them, and Hannibal allows her to remain at court, with the promise that, should she decide to betray two Kings in her lifetime, she will not live to see a third.

The coronation is small, but the joy of the people is genuine. Hannibal vows to dedicate every moment he can to making sure his people are fed and housed, that they are given medicine and means to survive the harsh winter, and that come springtime, they will know that the rightful King is here, and loves them, and means to see them prosper.

He sends word to his uncle to tell him the happy news. He uses Chiyoh to send the message, since the ravens were all killed when Mason took over, and Chiyoh knows the land and his family. She promises to ride swiftly and return as soon as she is able.

Will is awake on the seventh day when Hannibal visits him, nursing a bowl of soup and thick slices of bread, water and ale beside him on a tray across his lap. He looks much better, flushed and warm, clean, his hair fluffy and curling around his face. He has shaved, or someone has shaved him, making him look his true age.

He looks up when Hannibal enters the room, and for a moment, a look so tender and affectionate crosses his face before he schools it, it takes Hannibal's breath away.

"It's good to see you awake," Hannibal says, approaching his bed.

Will nods, swallowing his mouthful. "Glad to be here," he replies, with that familiar lopsided, charming smile. "Being King suits you," he adds, nodding to Hannibal's crown, and fine clothes, and similar improved state of cleanliness and clean-shaven face. "I would kneel, but…."

"Will," Hannibal says gently, "surely you know you need not kneel for me."

Will's cheeks color, and he swallows again, looking down at his feet.

"I won't lie," he says, with false lightness; "I'm surprised I'm not in irons."

Hannibal frowns.

"I know you can't trust me, after what I've done."

Hannibal sighs to himself. He removes his crown, and his outer robe, laying them both at the foot of the bed. Will frowns at him in confusion, a small amount of wariness, as Hannibal carefully climbs into the bed beside him, and settles, propped up on the pillows as Will is. They have often sat together, just like this, in the dead of night with nothing but the cold and the trees and the snow to keep them company.

Will is tense beside him, utterly without motion, as a rabbit might freeze in the sights of a wolf. His breathing is too steady, far too even. He must be in pain, but even when Hannibal reaches out and lightly grazes the bandages covering Will's bare chest, he doesn't flinch.

"The excitement of battle, and the relative quiet now, does not change what I told you at the camp," Hannibal says quietly. Will lifts his chin, but still, does not look at him. "Will, I brought you here for a reason. To this very room, for a reason. Do you know where we are?"

Will nods, pressing his lips together, his cheeks darkening another few shades.

"I cannot think of a greater pleasure than keeping you by my side," Hannibal continues, when it becomes clear Will doesn't intend to reply. "It need not be as a knight, or a member of the court, if you would prefer."

"What, then?" Will rasps.

Hannibal sighs. "Will you look at me?"

Will's jaw bulges at the corner, but he obeys, fixing Hannibal with another of his wild-eyed stares. No, Hannibal thinks, he could not possibly condemn Will to the shackles of court. Will deserves the open fields, the deep and dark woods. The freedom to come and go as he pleases.

Hannibal cups his face, and Will lets out his breath like he was holding it. "I know, now, why you lied," he says. "I cannot imagine how you felt, before we knew each other, and during. You risked your life to bring me to Jack, and to the Capitol, and to my victory."

"I know you're a man worth the risk," Will breathes.

Hannibal smiles. "What can I give you, as a reward? And before you answer, know that your life and your position are already guaranteed. You are a free man, and need not fear anyone's judgement for your actions, nor the title of deserter, nor any slander against you."

Will's eyes dip, briefly, to Hannibal's lips. Then, they rise again. "You asked me to stay with you," he murmurs. Hannibal nods, his thumb tracing the pink flush on Will's cheek as he speaks. He cannot remember touching anything this tenderly, _wanting_ to hold something so precious.

"I did," Hannibal agrees. "I confess, when we were on the road, and spoke of separating, it troubled me deeply. The thought of not seeing you every day is a painful one. But," he adds, before Will can reply, "I won't chain you here. The choice is yours."

Will's eyes shine like sunlight on the ocean. His lips twitch into a weak smile. He lifts a hand, which shakes from both weakness and nerves, and mimics Hannibal's touch on him. Calluses on his fingertips brush Hannibal's skin, which is suddenly fever warm, and Will's smile widens when they both discover such a light touch can make Hannibal tremble in turn.

Will, as he has often, does not answer with words. Instead, he leans in, and Hannibal is eager to meet him. The brush of Will's dry lips is warm and gentle, like the first touch of sunlight on winter ground. He parts his lips when Hannibal tilts his head, seeking entrance, and his hand slides back to cup Hannibal at the nape of his neck.

"Don't send me away," Will breathes, when it ends, "and I will never leave for long."

Hannibal smiles, and rests their foreheads together, and wonders if his crown or this man is the greater prize.

Hannibal is in the courtyard, watching the newest group of knights – all willing recruits, that is one of the first laws he changed – go through their motions, commanded and led by Jack. He hears a call from the gates, and looks up.

"Open the gates! The Queen has returned!"

Hannibal smiles, every inch of him lighting up with joy as the portcullis rises, and through them Will enters, astride a giant red beast of a stallion, whose temperament is as wild as his master. He has a brace of rabbits tied to the pommel, and the carcass of a deer positioned carefully behind the saddle.

Will dismounts once he is inside, and feeds his horse a lump of sugar from his pocket, as servants come to unload his catch. Will catches the food for Hannibal and himself personally, he refuses to partake in the banquets or any meal that did not come from his haul.

He is a beautiful hunter, capable and deadly, and Hannibal adores how he smiles when he returns from another trip to the forest, or the wildlands beyond.

Hannibal goes to him as Will turns. There is a smear of dirt on his neck and mud in his clothes, and blood on his hands, dried and flaking. He meets Hannibal eagerly, and they embrace without a care for Will's messiness as Will answers him, laughing into the kiss.

"I missed you," he murmurs, lashes low.

Hannibal knows it. He felt it himself, from the moment he bid Will farewell, and happy hunting, the day before. Will leaves often, he must still feed them both, after all, but his skill means he is rarely gone for long, and doesn't need to venture too far.

Hannibal's fingers lace in his hair as he pulls Will into another kiss, uncaring for who might be watching. The people do not worry for an heir, they trust Hannibal will name a worthy successor when it is time; they are simply happy to see their King so in love with the man who helped him reclaim his throne.

At Will's belt is his hunting knife, and a thin silk bag. When Hannibal allows him air, Will unties the bag from his belt, removing the contents. It is a golden circlet, Hannibal commissioned it for him personally, a thin band of vines and sharp angles reminiscent of the horns of a stag.

Hannibal takes it from him, and places it reverently on his head. Will smiles, and pulls Hannibal in by the ties on his robe, and grants him another kiss.

"Do you have any pressing matters?" he asks, his voice low, hushed. Hannibal has come to recognize that particular gleam in his beloved's eyes. Will celebrates his victories on a hunt in carnal, intimate ways – ways that Hannibal aches for as deeply as he feels Will's absence.

"No," Hannibal replies. He cradles Will's skull with one hand, the other gentle on Will's hip, keeping him close. Will's eyes are dark with promise, his smile off-kilter and wide enough to show his teeth. The scent of Will, fresh from the woods, is as well-known to him as his own, even as it begins to grow thick and dark and tastes like honey on Hannibal's tongue.

Will arches a brow. "I need a bath, Your Majesty," he purrs.

"And I need you," Hannibal replies unapologetically.

Will laughs. Hannibal so adores how he laughs, deep in his chest and with a growl like an animal. "A compromise, then," he teases, tilting Hannibal's chin up with a single finger. Hannibal catches that hand and laces their fingers together. Will turns him, and pulls him towards the doors. "Shall we?"

Hannibal, as he always has, follows him without question. "After you," he says with a smile, that Will eagerly answers, as they go inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Link to full art post: https://joyld100.tumblr.com/post/625205949625450496/i-swear-one-of-these-days-ill-understand-how


End file.
